


certain ways to recognize false gold

by shipwrecks



Category: It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood, Blowjobs, Canon-Typical Alcoholism, Choking, Coercion, Dennis Returns To Philly, Depersonalization, Dissociation, Face-Fucking, M/M, Mental Illness, Random Sex, Taking the Dicktowel Show Way Too Seriously, Violence, classic good realtor/bad realtor dynamic, dennis-typical drug abuse, not exactly dubcon but it's dennis, random acts of arson while naked, unhealthy bdsm, violent daydreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 14:30:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14427471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipwrecks/pseuds/shipwrecks
Summary: He feels like it's been so long since he closed the door on Paddy's but time moves differently in the middle of fucking nowhere.otherwise known as: [cue theme music] "Mac and Dennis Are A Greek Tragedy"





	certain ways to recognize false gold

**Author's Note:**

> WOW Y'ALL. can you believe that i finally finished something i started exactly four months to the day ago, on the whims of a christmas eve breakdown. there truly can be miracles when you believe.
> 
> this is my self-indulgent contribution to the Dennis Discourse. if you've ever wondered what macdennis is like to a classicist water sign, buckle up tight!
> 
> finishing and posting this would not have been possible without [haemophilius](http://archiveofourown.org/users/haemophilus/) and [whatsupbitches/larkin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/larkin) so i dedicate it to them, precious peas that they are.

**I. prólogos**

O Zeus, why did you give men  
_certain ways to recognize false gold_ ,  
when there's no mark, no token on the human body,  
to indicate which men are worthless

—EURIPIDES, _Medea_

 

**II. párodos**

**STROPHÊ**

Real snow falls outside of his—their— _Mandy's_ house. It all looks just like you'd expect it would, the sun overblown in the blinding white that goes on for miles, snowflakes falling delicately as happy people bundled up beyond recognition shovel their driveways. Dennis wouldn't recognize them even without all the layers. His previous stay in the suburbs closed him off permanently to the idea of neighbors, the cheerful pluck in their voices settling in him as a tension headache. His edges—ever vigilant—sharpen at any attempt to create the vague hospitality of all small towns that he distrusts at his very core.

He's a city man, has been, will be, he realizes as he tries to think _why_ he was seized up by this idea to run to North Dakota in the first place. He feels like it's been so long since he closed the door on Paddy's but time moves differently in the middle of fucking nowhere. Every day he has to wait for the universe to be created and all of history to occur, then in the blink of an eye, it's nearing the end of the year already somehow.

_he got fired almost immediately from the bartending gig he'd convinced an assistant manager to give him because drinking on the job was only allowed at bars he owned, which was currently zero. so now he's at the only other decent alcohol-serving establishment in seemingly all of what passes for a city in north dakota, trying his level best to get plastered, but it takes a lot of whiskey these days._

_she sits down next to him, even though there are open seats down the bar, and it's instinctual to start talking to her. start lying about who he is, why he's here. he asks the bartender to add her drinks to his tab. Demonstrate Value. she's flattered—blushing, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear,_ oh you don't have to do that _—this is probably going to be easy._

_it is. she's young, trusting, and she invites him back to her place. (how young, dennis wonders, knowing firsthand that someone being in a bar is no guarantee of being 21. before they'd left, when she went to the bathroom, he surreptitiously found her wallet and checked her age—all good. he knows this because he found her real license. 20.) he thinks she might have said something about being a student at a university somewhere around here, but he wasn't really listening and he doesn't really care._

_he fucks her, unceremoniously. Engage Physically. then he makes up some flimsy excuse to leave, and he can tell she doesn't buy it, but she acts aloof and he leaves. Separate Entirely. so he skipped some steps. on his drive home, he realizes he could possibly be more drunk than he previously assumed. whatever, nobody's ever out on the roads because no one lives in this fucking state. he descends into the ring of hell that is the suburbs of north dakota's biggest city. he arrives at the house and no one's awake. bars had late hours, mandy thought he was at work. he gets in the shower and turns the water scalding, and he scrubs it all off, clean and fresh for the family._

The crow's feet he wants to ignore in the mirror scream at him and the couple grey hairs that are the only fruit of his failed fatherhood make him want to punch the reflection he sees. He imagines the glass cracking out from where his fist makes contact, the hairline fractures distorting his face. Blood running down his knuckles, shards embedded in his skin like a thousand tiny pinpricks that only hurt when he feels them all at once. He swings the mirror back, opening the medicine cabinet. He's got a shitload of pills now. It's funny how he refused medication for so long, out of some twisted sense of pride, when these let him reach levels of calm detachment he could have only dreamed of.

He's been feeling even keel, has for a few weeks, has gotten through fucking _holiday parties_ like he's fucking normal, but an energy that hasn't decided whether it's manic or depressive sparks through him, the anticipatory sizzle of an impending breakdown under his skin. It's too familiar and he knows he can only stave it off for so long. What's going to set it off this time, he thinks every time, and then something does. He wants to get through Christmas, but everything makes him feel like he's walking a tightrope of live wire.

 

**ANTISTROPHÊ**

It's Christmas Eve and he's leaning against a park bathroom clumsily rolling a joint, looking not entirely as casual as he'd like. He's out of practice, but eventually he's lighting something sort of joint-shaped. He had to buy weed from a kid, he hopes one that's in high school but has a sinking feeling is only in junior high. The whole thing was slightly surreal—loitering around a fucking YMCA, trying to figure out which one of these kids has pot, when one asks him straight out what he wants to buy and he feels old and horrible, a genuine horrible that he actually hasn't felt in awhile, which gives way to nothing. But the kid really doesn't seem to be fazed by their entire exchange.

It occurs to him that Christmas Eve is probably not the night to do this, but the thought of not doing it is...he could say worse, but realizes boring. This is who he is, he acknowledges with a deflated sigh around the joint. His teeth are chattering and his fingers are numb. Whatever struck Dennis to make him think he needed to get high on a night this cold has passed, and he wishes he was inside.

He trudges through the snow slowly, feels it melt and seep into his shoes. It's fucking freezing, Dennis is fucking freezing. Lights twinkle as he passes house after house. They all look the same to him, with their stucco and their basketball hoops in the driveway and their mailboxes. The Smiths, the Millers, the Johnsons, the Joneses. Welcome, Come On In, Wipe Your Paws on the doormat. How did he ever think he could exist here.

_mandy is saying something about him getting distant. she's worried. something like that, whatever. her mouth moves forever, talk talk talking and what is she saying, get to the point. people, mostly women, are always just talking so much, with nothing important to say, like dennis should be giving them the time. he finally hears "therapy" and yep, there it is. why she's saying all this. okay, dennis says flatly. easier to just do this instead._

_the psychiatrist is, in his opinion, an idiot. it's easy to stretch the truth here, leave stuff out there, carve out a dennis that'll get him what he wants. pills, that's what he wants. and for mandy to think everything's fine. he racks up a few prescrips, what's the harm in that. might even calm him down a bit._

_he finds another bar, closer to the campus of whatever school was here, and realizes it's almost exclusively full of students. they aren't looking to hire a bartender, but the staff is young and impressionable, and he says the right things. seems well-to-do. this time, he'll be less noticeable when drinking behind the bar._

_something dennis would have known more about had paddy's ever had a decent amount of female patrons: girls want to fuck their bartender. he's like a therapist with a neverending bottle. it's a revolving door of perky, wide-eyed women who're barely old enough to drink in this bar (if that) and they think he's charming and mysterious, an older man with a tragic backstory that would explain why he's in north dakota. sometimes he goes back to their apartments, sometimes they just fuck in the bathroom._

He's almost at their— _Mandy's_ street when his eyes, in a rare moment of stoned clarity, focus on a mailbox. The paint is faded and peeling, snow's piled up on top, it's dark and he's high as shit, but it says The McDonalds just the same. As if a wire runs through his brain, his heart, his gut, and his dick and someone just yanked it, he feels jumbled and electric. He's now either too high or not high enough, he's not sure.

He settles on not high enough and pulls the half-joint he's got left from his pocket. It's dead silent so he can hear the crackle when he lights it and takes a deep breath in.

_Mac._

It's been awhile since Dennis thought about him and it's strange thinking of him now, here, sinking into the snow on Christmas Eve—shit, it might be Christmas at this point—as he gets high so he can go home to his...place that he lives. That's what it is now, at this point. He's only still here because of the holidays and the meds.

When he first got here, he'd see things that reminded him of Mac all the time, mostly when he was wandering through the aisles of Target, a true liminal suburban hell, and saw action figures and karate shit. They talked, but it wasn't the same anymore, and eventually, they didn't. The last text on his phone is something about Mac's Halloween costume, from September.

It would probably be easier, Dennis thinks, if he felt angry or sad or another simple emotion. As it stands, he doesn't feel much at all, just can't stop stringing together moments until over half his life has played out with Mac next to him.

He's smoking ash at this point and he's reminded of smoking emergency cigarettes that were taped behind the toilet with Dee in her bathroom. He doesn't talk to Dee that much anymore either, but he won't stop altogether. Sometimes he gets drunk and calls her; she tells him about the rest of the gang and then they spend a couple hours shitting on everyone, but mostly Mac. Occasionally, she'll ask how he's doing in a genuine, almost sincere kind of way, but mostly, Dennis wishes he got texts like _take your meds boner_ after, like he's her twin brother.

He flicks away the joint and scrubs a hand over his face. He's forty-fucking-one and he feels just about every second of that in this moment.

Why couldn't Mac leave it alone? Why did he have to come out of the closet for real and get him the fucking RPG and tell him he wanted to raise his kid? He's been asking himself this over and over, can't ask the real questions.

He walks the rest of the way home. The door's unlocked. He toes off his wet shoes and hangs up his coat as quietly as he can and walks upstairs. He looks into Brian's room, no longer a Junior, who's still sound asleep. At least he got high after dinner, after Mandy and he had put Brian to bed. His socks are soaking the carpet.

_Why did Mac always want more_

He makes his way across the hall and to the bathroom that's off the guest room—his room now. He brushes his teeth and just strips down to his undershirt and boxers and crawls into bed. _Merry Christmas_ , he wishes himself with a bitter laugh.

_Why couldn't it ever be enough_

 

**EPODE**

He's tired all Christmas, it seems like the coffee never kicks in, but he makes it through. He rummages through the medicine cabinet in the morning, grabbing one of this, two of that, another of those, taking them all in one go. This may explain the drowsiness. He doesn't make a scene though.

_it's saturday night and the bar is packed, full of people watching fucking college football on the television. dennis doesn't get the appeal, but dudes bring their girlfriends and send them to the bar because they think he, dennis, will actually pay attention to them. they are right._

_whoever everyone wanted to win wins, and the place re-energizes as shots are poured all down the bar. some guy—brought the tiny blonde who ordered piss beer and a vodka soda—yells that in honor of such a victory, party at his frat house. last call's not for a couple hours, so this'll take away some business, and he looks at dennis, daring him to say something about this. dennis just does his best wisened bartender chuckle, because he doesn't give a shit. he's made a decent amount of tips and he's currently on his way to drunk. a brunette—straight tequila all night—closes out her tab and mentions she'll be at the party. says maybe she'll see him there. she thinks he's a student._

_his shift is finally over and he's not entirely sure what he's going to do now, only knows that he doesn't want to go home yet. not when it feels like the night dances on the edge of a knife. dennis is curious._

_as he drives, he eventually runs through frat row on his way to the freeway and he can immediately tell which house the party's at. hm, dennis considers. ok, dennis decides. his shift ran late because of the game, he already stores in the back of his head. his boss postponed last call to make as much as possible. he knew basically all the ways to get in or out of a frat house undetected, having spent so much time as a legend in one, and he used this particular knowledge to avoid having to deal with the newest, most uptight brothers who were always on bouncer duty. he manages it by finding a side fence—can't hear anyone on the other side—and, up and over. it's mostly seamless, although dennis' light base cracks a touch. but he's in and standing right in front of a fridge that he opens to find fully stocked. this must be the backup fridge that only brothers are supposed to know about. how had it not been discovered and ransacked. god, everyone here was so stupid. dennis chugs two beers in rapid succession—shit, cold, so cold, it's been awhile since he last had to chug beer, was probably when they tried to beat boggs—then opens a third and walks into the party, nonchalant, like of course he can be here._

_the proceeding hours are a whirling blur of beer and bass, loud and heavy, seeping into dennis and both pushing and pulling at him. the crisp air of early winter bites at him, demanding he gets drunker so it doesn't feel so fucking cold. tries to put in some time with girls here but it's taking too long and they're with their friends so they don't want to leave. he's bored and they're not getting how much of a legend he is, in a nothing little place like this. girls take way too much work for what you get out of them._

_she taps his shoulder and when dennis turns around, she's the tequila brunette from the bar. she smiles as she pulls two pills from her pocket. puts one on her tongue and holds another out to him. this is where the night is going, and dennis sees no reason to get in its way. he takes the pill and swallows it down with the last of his cup of beer. gotta get some more beer._

_whatever he took begins to kick in and he feels like radio static and syrup, doesn't know how he can be antsy in melting skin. then remembers a night—fuck, ten years ago—flashes back viscerally. ecstasy. brunette is dancing with him, or rather, is pressed flush against him and vaguely moving to the music. dennis can feel sweat pooling in the dip of his shoulder, at his lower back. too hot in here._

_the song eventually ends (finally, these fucking electronic songs are too fucking long) and whatever comes on next is something brunette doesn't like because she pulls dennis off the makeshift dance floor and back outside. the rush of air blasts him in the face, energizing his senses and all the colors brighten even though it's night. brunette asks him if he wants to redose, but then puts a pill on her tongue and doesn't hold another out to him, which dennis thinks doesn't leave room for a lot of possible answers. the answer he gives is sloppy and it tastes like beer and chalk._

_the second pill hits him harder, everything's oversaturated and he can already tell he's losing moments. on a mission to find better booze, walks upstairs past the party limits where he knows they'll keep the good stuff. he can hear people fucking behind the doors he passes until he finds one that's quiet. hopes whoever lives in this room has good taste. he doesn't, but he does at least have hard liquor. rum is disgusting, but he can't taste anything right now, or even really feel his mouth. the trick is to open your throat, dee had said once, when he asked her how she could chug down drinks so fast. so he'd learned something from her after all._

_almost half the bottle's now gone, so he's probably going to feel pretty drunk when he stands up. great. then he's back on the dance floor. bass thumping, someone against him—blonde this time. outside, blast of cool air. more booze upstairs. brunette asking him where'd you go, you just like, took off an hour ago. an hour? dennis laughs, then opens his eyes to someone else. needs a beer. has a beer._

_time's moving unevenly, sticking in certain places, rushing past with a_ whoosh _in others. lights glow warm around him, red—orange—yellow. the place looks engulfed in flames, as the lights crawl up the walls and into the sky, spin back around and do it again and again. he could be anything. he could do anything, here. he has another drink._

_hears someone shouting, i'm a legend! feels his mouth say i'm a legend. say have some respect for a brother. barefoot. cold. naked. ash in his throat. hands on him, holding him down. smells smoke. someone on the phone. FIRE!FIRE!!!FIRE!FIRE!! different voices in his head scream. sirens. feels cold steel. mandy picking him up, didn't remember calling—you didn't, the cops had to call me because you passed out in the car._

_it's over dennis, he hears. you can stay through christmas, he hears, then you need to get out._

He feels heavy, like his bones are sinking and pulling him down. He's in the shower, everyone's finally gone home. His head is fuzzy at the edges—vaguely recalls a few more pills—and it's making him comfortable, the distance between him and his thoughts. He knows this isn't even keel, and it isn't the whirling storm he's expecting—he's just going to have to ride this out and see what it is. Perhaps it's nothing, perhaps he's going to make it through the holiday season.

 

Three days later, the film lifts and he starts hearing other people clearly again. Mandy tells him he's going back to Philly, like she said he would. She waited until the end of the holidays, for Brian, but he has to get out now. Static creeps in. She tells him she bought him a ticket, he's going.

"Okay." He swallows as he says it, like he could stuff it back down.

He throws up before he gets on his flight. He doesn't expect it to be so full, on New Years Eve. He orders tequila and a cup, and the flight attendant is nice enough to include a pathetic lime wedge. It hits his lips, bitter, and somehow they're touching down onto the tarmac and the only place he's ever known as home.

He has to take a cab to Paddy's because Mac blew up his fucking Range Rover with _his_ fucking RPG. And he didn't tell any of them he was coming. It's after two in the morning. It's 2018. The driver's telling him they're here. Dennis pays him and then he's pushing open the door—

 

**III. epeisódia**

**αʹ**

Hugh Honey leans back, on all fours, and tries to get the two fingers in his asshole deeper. He knows he looks wanton, but it makes him think about all the other nasty shit he wants and that makes him feel sexy. He dips his back low so his ass arches higher in the air. Vic Vinegar digs the blunt nails of his other hand into Hugh's hip and pushes further inside.

_looking at vic, filthy and predatory, with a spark in his eyes that dares him to do something about this, about them. wants to see how far vic will go. what he'll take if hugh offers._

_strong hands that forced hugh the way he wanted him. trailed licks and nips and bites along his neck and down his chest. rubbed his thigh against hugh's dick roughly. flipped him over and pulled pants and underwear down at once. left the blazer on._

Vic adds another finger because Vic’s cock is big enough for Hugh to need it. He fucks him roughly even with just his fingers and Hugh will maybe die or something slightly less dramatic, he guesses, if Vic doesn’t put his dick in him _now_.

Of course, that means Vic teases, taking his fingers out and just waiting there, silently willing him, Hugh, to actually beg him for it.

Hugh gives a little urgent noise that is certainly not enough to get what he really wants, but Vic takes some pity and starts jerking him off. Some of the tension unravels, only for another kind to knot in its place.

"You like this?" Vic asks. "Yeah," he manages to choke out in reply when he feels Vic's fingers back inside him.

"You want my cock in there instead?" and Hugh feels too fucking needy and out of control, but he can't stop. He can feel Vic, hard against him, and Hugh pushes his ass towards his dick, hoping that he gets what he wants.

When he can hear Vic slicking himself up with lube, his breath ragged as he touches himself, Hugh feels vindicated; they're both needy. Then Vic pushes inside him slowly, and all he can feel is his cock.

"Fuck, you're so tight, De—" Hugh moans loudly over him, leans back to take more of him. Vic pounds into Hugh, keeps getting rougher as Hugh just takes it. His breath shaky every time Vic hits his prostate.

"Jack me off," Hugh doesn't ask. Vic does what he's told. _He's Hugh Honey he's Hugh Honey he's Hugh Honey_ , he keeps drilling into his head over and over while Vic fucks him. He comes hard when he can't remember ever being anyone else.

 

The next morning, the sun streams through the blinds of a master bedroom window in a foreclosed house. Dennis wakes up too early and immediately heads for the shower where he keeps the water hot enough to turn his skin red. He stumbles back into yesterday’s clothes, leaving the blazer at the foot of the bed, is trying to leave quickly and quietly. He goes to a bar he doesn’t own so he can get a decent double bloody mary, then orders two more. He’s going to show up to work drunk, but then, what’s the point of even owning a bar if you can’t?

 

**βʹ**

They're back in their apartment, and Country Mac is dead. Country Mac is gay and dead.

Blaring moments of the day burst into Dennis' mind. _Holy shit, there's two of them._ Country Mac emerging from the Schuylkill, lit golden with the sun behind him. Taking the joint from him, laughing into his warm chest— _I'm into dudes. Loud and proud, brother._ Him walking away easy and comfortable. How had they ever looked the same.

He isn't stoned anymore, but he is drunk. Or close enough, anyway. Enough that they're going to do this now, he's going to make Mac say what he isn't, what he really is. Venom thrums through his veins that he's eager to share; he's eager to strike.

"Admit it, Mac. Admit it right now, you're not a badass."

"I AM A BADASS!" he yells immediately, on instinct. The angry walls already building up to full height, certain truths stuck on the other side.

"You're delusional about everything. You're a Catholic who can't follow God's rules. You're a bouncer who can't win a fight. You're a straight dude who can't fuck a woman."

He can see Mac tighten, coil; they're two snakes. Lunge. Back Dennis against the wall. Looks too angry to speak. What would he even say.

Mac looks down, can't seem to make eye contact, but his breath is loud, incensed. Dennis uses this pause to flip them around, shove Mac into the wall.

"What're you gonna do, lie about this forever," not a question but an accusation.

His face is shame and anger, and Dennis imagines it exploding into a million little pieces. The thought makes his mouth curl into a smile's darker twin.

It wasn't even about this, _it was about karate_ he could remind himself. he doesn't. He's going to push this button tonight, even if it's going to detonate on them both.

He slaps Mac and he can feel the heat of it, there's a sting in his hand, tells him _you did this, it's real_. Can't be sure. He slaps him with his other hand—"dude what the fuck?" Makes a noise like huh, or yeah, or just a noise maybe. He already can't remember, he already doesn't want to talk anymore.

He drops to his knees and looks up at Mac with steel in his eyes. He wants to suck Mac's dick, wants to make sure Mac can't forget _Dennis_ is sucking his dick.

When he did this before— _bang a dude_ , that's what he's doing—he'd been anyone except himself, had been able to become someone else. Under enough pressure, he's forced down to where the stuff he keeps an eye on lives inside him, and he takes this piece of himself that's buried deep. It glints like a knife, Dennis only ever able to acknowledge it when it's a weapon.

He wants Mac to feel the moment that his both deepest-held conviction and greatest hypocrisy snaps at Dennis’ hand. Wants to feel it himself, wants Mac to say his name over and over and over.

He's already unzipping Mac's pants. He pulls them down. "Fuck my face," he says. Dennis knows that underneath layers of grit and guilt, Mac waits for his permission to take what he wants.

But he puts on a big show of shock and resistance—Dennis wonders if this is part of it too, it's not just the whole Defying Your Father thing, but that he has to pretend to try so he can feel the guilt of not being able to say no. Self-flagellation. Dennis is pumping Mac's dick and spits on it to make it slick like a filthy porn star. He's getting hard. Dennis licks up the shaft, swallows Mac's dick down easy, is sloppy as he sucks him off, hoping he'll start fucking his mouth. Then, just the slightest roll of his hips. There—acquiescence.

Mac runs his fingers through Dennis' hair, settles his hand at the back of Dennis' head and Dennis looks up at him, his eyes commanding _Do It_. Mac is angry at Dennis and wants to hit him in the face. Mac obeys.

He thrusts in-out, in-out, pulls against Dennis' hair to keep his head still, in-out, in-out. A disgusting squelch that's on fucking surround sound in Dennis' head, loud, louder, taking his cock deep, deeper, eyes watering, in-out, in-out.

He wants Mac to fuck him hard, take take take from him until he's empty. Wants to see how far he can go. Wants to go further.

 

Mac's got a fistful of his hair as he fucks into him from behind. Dennis' knuckles are white as he grips the table edge, and he aches. Mac's got to be too old to be fucking standing up. He slips in and out of himself.

"Hit me," says Dennis. "Do something."

He, Mac, is pissed at him, barely needs to be told. He pulls Dennis back by his scruff and bites his neck hard enough to for blood vessels to immediately burst. Shoves him back down on the table, he hits his nose. _crack_ he hears, tastes copper, blood. It runs down his face, crimson and dangerous.

 

They're fucking on the couch. Since when, he wonders. Mac's got scratches down his chest that glare at him angry red and Dennis can see his own hand trying to carve something deep beneath the skin. It makes him laugh.

The blood on his face's still wet, not too long then. Mac pushes two fingers into his mouth. he keens his head back, takes them. forces them in further. Dennis tastes ichor, tastes gold.

_"i scored an actual point in an actual karate tournament against an actual black belt!" they're never going to hear the end of this, are they. mac's never going to let this go, this tiny miniscule insignificant success that is his only proof he's anything he says he is._

_he's on the ground. he's got the black belt around mac's neck, pulling tighter and tighter. mac's face goes red-white-blue. beautiful. he's not on the ground, mac's not on the ground, everyone else around them—this is real. charlie has the pillow, his head screams inside instead._

Hands are around his neck and they grab him tight, squeeze. He chases the nothing, finds an eternal black void that's going to swallow him slowly and wholly. He can vaguely feel his throat strain, then he can't. Is he conscious anymore. Blacker than he thought it could be, then darker, darker still. So close to gone then Mac says Dennis. Light pours into him. Says Dennis. Says oh god. Says Dennisdennisgodfuckdennis. _dennisgod_ , He Comes, mac comes, reality seeps in and surrounds the nothingness.

He feels jabs of pain all over. pushes what he wants to ignore again back down. goes to his room because it's over now. Mac won't talk about it and Dennis doesn't want to talk about it. He cleans himself up mostly and gets into bed, hopes he falls asleep as quickly as possible.

He sleeps fitfully and wakes up with a kink in his neck that tilts the whole day off. He goes to Country Mac's funeral, listens to Mac talk about his evil homo ways, like there’s a neon-lit _SIN!_ hanging over his own head. Everything else after that is garbled noise because Dennis doesn't want to listen anymore. It all feels almost real for a moment. And then everything begins again, like it always does.

 

**anápaistos**

_Oh, look at it, look at me. We’re making a mess, huh?_  
[sunny scene generator](https://sunnyscenegenerator.tumblr.com/post/168615526703/oh-look-at-it-look-at-me-were-making-a-mess)

 

**IV. stásimon**

—and a glass slips and breaks. "Holy shit," is all Dee says before she grabs the broom to sweep up the shards.

"That's how you greet your fucking twin brother? After nine months?"

He drops his bag as Dee shrugs and pulls a bottle out from under the bar and puts down two shot glasses. He should say no— _knows_ he should say no, feels like it's a feeble something that he at least recognizes it—but he sits down across from her. She pours just about to the brim on each.

They stare at each other with the same wry looks on their same faces, like a mirror. They both knock back the shots. _Rum_ , he realizes, looking disgusted as she laughs at him, the mirror illusion shattering.

"What're you doing here?"

"I figured the bar'd be closed by now and it'd just be you and the guys—where are the guys?"

"Not what I meant and you know it, but sure. They're out in the alleyway still lighting off homemade fireworks. They don't work that well—shocking—so the cops haven't showed up. I was out there like five minutes ago. I came in for another beer, and then your dumb ass walked through the door."

"So I could have walked in here to nobody?"

"Of course you could have. Do you think I stand behind the bar with a glass in my hand ready to drop just in case you decide to stop being a drama queen and come back to Philly?"

He scowls at her, and she reaches under the bar again. "Getting that beer," she answers the question he hadn't asked yet. "Want one?" as she hands the bottle to him, not waiting for his answer.

"Dee Dee Dee Dee—" he hears before he sees him, he's frozen as beer sloshes down his throat, and then Mac stops dead, immediately silent. Dennis chokes on his beer and Dee mutters, "Nice." He glares at her, to which her response is casual amusement. He looks at Mac, whose expression is somewhere between ire and an open wound. He can't look at Mac.

"Surprise," he says more into his bottle. "Yeah," Mac replies, along with this sarcastic, noncommittal noise. It irritates Dennis.

Mac opens himself a beer and slides onto the stool next to him.

"So, what the hell are you doing here, bro?"

Dennis raises his eyebrows at Mac.

"I mean like, why'd you decide to come back to Philly at 2am on New Years?"

“I—” but Dennis doesn’t have an answer, or at least, not one he feels like volunteering, so he finishes “thought you guys’d be useless and depressed without me.”

“Useless and depressed? That doesn’t sound like us.” It’s Frank, Charlie behind him, they’re covered in smudges that Dennis assumes are from the fireworks.

“It sounds like you. Look at yourself, Dennis” and Dennis doesn’t look at himself, he stands up from the bar, already feeling the heat rise in him. What _is_ he doing here.

“Goddamnit Frank, you don’t know shit!” and that's—familiar.

“Hey man, it’s New Year. Can we all just be cool?” Charlie gives him a look that’s mostly fond surprise, like _huh, good to see you_. It's got just enough pity to make Dennis feel like they all think he’s glass. Charlie nods over at Dee who adds three shot glasses on the bar.

“Sis, tequila this time. I’m not taking another shot of rum.”

Mac bursts out laughing, trying to get out “you gave him rum?” and the two of them high five when Dee turns back around with the tequila bottle. This irritates Dennis too. When she goes to grab limes straight from the container on the bar, he slaps her hand out of habit.

“Hey assdick, you don’t work at or own this place anymore so stop hitting your bartender.”

They clink together the shots, and Dennis thinks this is sort of normal. Mac’s fingers brush his.

_they'd barely owned the bar for a year, were scraping by at the best of times. dennis knew they were stiffing dee and even charlie, but paddy's never made enough for any of them to feel like anyone else was winning._

_then their alley dive became the hottest gay bar in philadelphia. dennis is electric under the skin, feels a jolt when he can see how many people are looking at him tonight. he knows he's vain, but he also knows he looks good. as he grabs cash off the bar, puts a little twirl in it, shows off, he catches mac's gaze. an instant. over._

_he's not entirely positive what mac is up to, but he's pretty sure he knows how to do a tequila shot. still, tequila is good and he has mac's rapt attention. his eyes flicker down to dennis' mouth as he licks salt off his hand, puts a wedge of lime between his lips._

_dennis is struck by the thought he still gets every now and then of how they own this bar, they can drink like this every day and no one can tell them they can't. they're adults and they're their own bosses. he's finally in charge._

_the tequila's heavy on his tongue and the world's on a tilt and mac's saying "do it again."_

Dee immediately pours another round, Frank giving her the ‘keep 'em coming’ signal, tension starting to break. Dennis pounds his fists on the table, ready for it, wants to smother any conversations about The Thing They Still Haven't Addressed and he'll just drink drink drink with the gang like nothing's different.

Two shots, three shots, they're laughing, four, yelling, five, pissing in the alleyway, six, _you can stay with me_ , Dee looking at him with a face like _good luck_ and _you're so fucking stupid_. He shrugs into his coat as if to say it's fine. let's go.

 

Mac's sucking his dick, a lewd _slurp_ every so often. It's good. it's alright. He's trying. Really hard actually. It's not the best head Dennis has received by any means, but there's a desperation underneath any eroticism that...appeals to Dennis. He runs his fingers through Mac's hair and tugs, guiding Mac to take his cock deeper. Mac chokes and his eyes water, Dennis can feel it. The noise blares over and over in his head. Mac gagging on his cock eagerly, this look on his face—not quite happy, Dennis thinks, something else—maybe the most genuine thing he's ever done. Mac's mouth is a shiny and cheerful red, so very inviting.

_“we’re not talking about this right now.” i can't, he doesn't say. i don't want to, he knows is the truth._

_“fine. just answer me this: why’d you leave? really,” mac adds as if he needs the clarification._

_“you know why.”_

_it’s not enough. what dennis has always given._

_“i wanna hear you say it.”_

He can see Mac trying to get friction against his own cock, knows he's getting hard from this. "You like sucking dick now, huh," Dennis says down to him. He thrusts into Mac's mouth roughly and raises an eyebrow when he doesn't get an answer. Mac makes an agreeable _mmhm_ sound around his cock. It makes him drool out the side of his mouth, and it's sharp, how suddenly Mac looks ten years younger—Dennis whiplashed into a memory, of Mac doing exactly this, not knowing what he was doing at all. He pulls Mac off him with a hard yank.

"I wanna hear you say it," Dennis echoes Mac's words, dominant and slightly condescending.

"I—like sucking dick," he chokes out roughly before Dennis pushes him back down onto his cock. Dennis is close and Mac's mouth is open wide, takes him deep, hits the back of his throat— _shit—shitfuckshi—_ he comes before he can warn Mac. suck, gag, choke, only swallows most of it before he can't take his cock anymore, come and spit messy and trailing from Dennis' dick to Mac's completely fucked-out mouth.

 

Dennis realizes—as he looks out Mac's dirty window, he very much notices—that it's snowing. Thank god they managed to remember to turn the heat on in their—his— _Mac's_ apartment—

He'll be back in here in no time though. Mac clearly needs him.

_it's incredibly risky to get your dick sucked by someone who's your friend, your business partner, and a dude in the back office of the bar you own together, which is no small aid in why dennis is incredibly hard right now. mac's choking on his cock, his mouth watering and drooling down his chin. he looks like he's hungry for dennis' dick, and dennis might get harder._

_someone could walk in on them at any moment, the doors in this place never seem to truly lock, but mac looks good down there, even if he doesn't really know what he's doing, and dennis looks good too—feels pink somehow, the way he's young and pretty and getting his cock sucked. he can't imagine not feeling like this—somewhere between immortal and horny—doesn't ever want to._

Snowflakes pile up in brown slush on the window, and the city blares its noise over everything.

 

"I really hate you, man."

"So Charlie stays here most of the time, so don't just like, expect to move back in or whatever. He's a way chiller roommate than you ever were. Except, you know, when he pisses the bed or you go near his bleach cabinet."

Dennis can't tell if Mac doesn't hear him or he just isn't listening.

 

**V. éxodos**

█ █████ we deserve  
a ████ epilogue, ██ █████  
We are ████ people  
and we’ve suffered ███████

— _Seventy Years of Sleep_ # 4. nikka ursula (emphasis mine)


End file.
